


Breath

by OhLordHomoSex



Category: Adventure Time, Bubbline - Fandom, bubblegum x marceline, sugarless gum - Fandom
Genre: F/F, First Person, One Shot, suggestion of nsfw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-16 16:16:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3494846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhLordHomoSex/pseuds/OhLordHomoSex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Breath.<br/>It's hard when she's far. Every graze, kiss, and glance she graces my body whith leaves me in complete and utter ruins. Times like this, when she's closest, warmest, most passionate I have to remind myself what the life sustaining relic air is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, sorry this is my first try at publishing writing. This is a Bubbline(bubblegum marceline) one shot. There is NSFW suggestion and very blatantly gay from the admiring point of view of Marceline. Any advice or critique would be awesome, thanks.

My mind is an empty chasm from beginning to end, a rip killing access to the vault of my memories. Nothing in the past seemed to matter anymore, any idle walk in the park or heart aching breakup. The past was all mucky water I didn't care to chug.

 _But the now was different._.

The here and now is fresh. Here and now is far more captivating to the senses than past reminiscing; body numbing memories are nothing compared to her.

 _Pink_.

her complection was that of a cherry blossom just as it bloomstands and touches the sky for the first time. I watch her fingers touch my for the first time, grazing my skin and reaching out like the peddles of those flowers crying for the suns rays to hold them. I need to touch her back, hold her before she cries like the flowers, before she finds another sun. Because despite her lust for life and will to charge on a flower can't live without a source of nurture, love. It's peddles will become heavy with the weight of the world and fall to the ground, no dramatic end no beautiful salvation. Just death and...

Life. Life, The most delicate game of balance and barter. Life can never touch death but it's stuck in an infinitely sould shattering loop of tottering at the door of death, a knuckle just a breath away from its loose gates. Her and I are the same game of balance, interlocked together.

I can feel her fingertips tracking up my sides and an army of shivers move under my skin, tracking down the road of my spine. She's the simple idea of warmth, with her breath against my neck and fingers between my thighs. I can't think. My jaw loosens and the air flows from my lungs without consent. I'm not breathing now; not alone. The tainted and wicked earth around me is no longer my life source. She is as I inhale her breath, her sweet sent.. that beautiful pink. I breath it all in, to the very brim of my lungs, like an addict. Her hands. They're long and delicate. Precise. With those hands she creates safety. With those hands I've witness her create life. She mends and melds the fabric of this earth and others, building shelter with her grasp, pleasure with her smile, life with her breath. She is a princess, building walls for her people and hope with a hug.

My hands are cold, and unforgiving. They collapse walls, cities, and civilizations. They're aged beyond their time and I loathe them. The hunch of my posture, the knots in my hair, the gray of my skin and the hollow in my eyes. Even with my flesh as unforgiving at the winters empty, dead embrace... she holds me. Her fingers lace with mine and our hands are locked tight. Her breath moves to my ear and I can hear the world collapse away from us as she breathes those words,

"You are my queen."

She can believe I am her queen, but she is my breath, my warmth, the light I will never be able to experience in full. Her fingers run through the long strands of my ash and smoke colored hair. My fingers follow the trace of her body, every curve, nick, scar, goosebumps and stretch. The ride of her breast and the hill of her hips create a beautiful land I want to explore; not as a pioneer or scout, no. I want to be a wonderer, I want to lose myself in her mountains, her valleys every landmark of change and constant, past and future. Her body is grace, her land is eutopia.

I can't _breath_.

Her lips are too far from mine. They're grazing along my protruding collarbone and down my sides leaving red marks in their wake. Down. Down they go to my stomach, to my thighs, to my hip bones. Ever muscles under my skin shifts as I tense and her palm is pressing to my chest. Those life giving fingers are caressing against my skin and they remind me that i need to breath. I can _breath_ again as I feel .

"Bubblegum..." The words come out too weak. I feel a hot slap of blood rush to my face as I blush and my knees quake just around her ears. Maybe she didn't hear the anxiety in my voice, or the stifled plea for more. 

She's far to tender to a broken body like mine, and it all comes too quick; her touch, her love, the tender ways she dances her fingers and lips along my body in long passionate strides to make me feel. Make me feel heat, euphoria, pleasure-- No. It's far too beautiful to be any of those things. She makes me rattle with love. Not the generic love in movies, where you meet on a beach or in a coffee shop. Not this bullshit idea of destiny playing the cards in this game of love. It was gross, sloppy, and clumsy love. The gross love that allows you to kiss every inch of their imperfect body and see nothing but a beautiful work of art, a holy statue brought to life by some higher being to bring some joy, some peace to the havoc ridden world. The sloppy love that leaves you breathless and weak like a kid again, the sloppy love that reminds you, you're human as you knock drinks on each other and cry openly, helplessly, fully. The clumsy love that wields pain often, when you kiss and smash teeth, break a nose, poke an eye But you do it all over again and again savoring every second of bruised cheeks and pierced ljps for just a touch.  The love that leaves you with longing and discomfort, when you make love for the first time, faced with discovering a new land in awkward bliss, a dance of two disorganized foreign bodies. The love that proceeds past the words "I love you" and leaves you warm, even without them. The love that even after a battlefield sized argument, it forces you to mend the wounds of your enemy and rebuild the broken city together, because no love is perfect. It scars and rips and sticks. It'll hurt when you love to hard, or they don't love your hard enough, when you squeak out a goodbye in a bad morning. But you always return, and it still melds two impossible forces together. She is life, and I am death. Even though she fights my self loathing with unremarkable, sloppy, unyielding love, it reminds me that even tho I'm her queen, she is my princess, my love, my _breath_.


End file.
